


Coming. Closer.

by beetle



Series: If You Were a Movie, This Would Be Your Soundtrack [2]
Category: POKEMON Detective Pikachu (2019), Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types
Genre: Altered Mental States, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkward Romance, BDSM Scene, Banter, Breathplay, Consensual Kink, Dom/sub, Dominance, Domspace, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flirting, Gratuitous shout-out to Looker, Humiliation kink, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mild Painplay, Mild S&M, Mild so far, Minor canon character is written as having transitioned, Minor character DOES NOT SUCCEED and no injuries are sustained by the main pairing, Minor character attempts to attack a main character, Minor character gets tased, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Praise Kink, Pre-Scene Care, Roger Clifford POV, Romance, Size Kink, Smut, Spanking, Spoilers, Subdrop, Subfrenzy, Subspace, The Jolly Roger, Total Power Exchange, Trans Female Character, Wiffle gag, punishment kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-06 18:48:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19452799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: Roger Clifford now knows many things about himself and about Detective Harry Goodman. But, of these two, he is absolutely certain: They’re coming (quite frequently). And they’re closer.With almost every moment they share . . . they’re coming. Closer.Prompt in end notes.





	Coming. Closer.

**Author's Note:**

> Notes/Warnings: SPOILERS. Self-indulgent id-fic about the main pairing’s dynamic. Kink negotiation and contract issues. Actual kink (including: Dom/sub dynamic, power-exchange, subspace, subfrenzy, subdrop, spanking, pain-play, contract re-negotiation of what scenes consist of and their overall purpose, the initiation of new protocols and incorporation of old rituals, HEAVILY implied humiliation kink, implied past breath-play, wiffle-gag, intercrural sex, other sexual aides that go unused, frottage, situational and scene-based S&M dynamic, FEELS-sex). Alluded-to dysfunction and dysfunctional family dynamics. Implied PTSD and mental health issues. Attempts by one character to help heal the other . . . at least a little. Love confessions. Brief defensive violence that’s not between main or background pairings. Hopeful, happy ending.  
>   
>  **Also** note, this fic and the first are almost bookends. I mean to tell the tales between that first one and this second, as well as the tales between film’s end and the first fic.

**_Driven by the strangle of vein/ Showing no mercy, I'd do it again/ Open up your eyes/ You keep on crying, baby, I'll bleed you dry/ Skies are blinking at me/ I see a storm bubbling up from the sea/ And it's coming closer/ And it's coming closer. . . ._ **

#

So, it starts—rather mundanely enough—with a minor, if unexpected, threat to Roger’s safety.

Exasperatingly minor, really, considering the frequency with which it _once_ occurred—even just six months ago. And even then, the drop-off in occurrences had been significant enough from the months and years before _that,_ that Roger Clifford’s security-teams had compiled an in-depth report about the “momentous trend reversal,” and everything. With pie charts and graphs, organized in a holographic presentation and with professional voice-over narrations (Roger had thought that bit’d been a _little_ much . . . some passive-aggressive overkill).

At any rate, it hadn’t taken a detective of Harry Goodman’s caliber for Roger to start drawing some very compelling conclusions.

With the advent of a steady-lover-slowly-turned-significant-other-and-domestic-partner, and of being chosen by an irresistibly sweet and upbeat torchic, Roger Allen Clifford has . . . mellowed. Markedly.

In _some_ ways.

He’s still a relentless businessman, ambitious CEO, and an unbendingly principled not-quite-journalist, of course. Especially when it comes to his Ryme City media holdings and _especially_ after the debacle last year, with CNM&E’s _former_ executive officer—and founder . . . and Roger’s father—going to prison for the rest of his life. But he’s much less frequently attacked by his disgruntled former employees when they’ve finally had enough of the rigors that come with being _Roger Clifford’s_ fill-in-the-blank.

Roger’s mellowed most of all regarding his dynamic with CNM&E staff—he respects the journalists, editors, and administrative staff at his most prized holding, and not just because he, himself, had once aspired to be a journalist. Even so, when he’s of a mind to make employee head(s) roll, rarer though those times are . . . if the employee-in-question loses their shit enough to attack him during the aftermath, it’s still quite the spectacle.

_More so_ , when that ex-employee tries to do something creative, like splash a hot coffee in Roger’s face, throw a chair at him, direct their pokémon partner to bite his eyebrow (it’s happened twice: once with a timid piplup and once with a rather grouchy bulbasaur, and both times to his _left_ eyebrow), or try to tackle/swing-on/throttle him.

The employee-in-question of today’s attempted assault (the first in over a month) is already an ex-employee, as of several minutes, prior. Roger is _done_ with the man, having fired him and mentally moved on from the whole thing. On to the next very important item on his crammed agenda. He turns toward his office to meet that item, already half-smiling. Or perhaps smirking.

As he strides past and between the desks of his two executive assistants, Ms. Looker and Mr. Wei—through the outer office that serves as the pair’s front-facing workspace and the limited-access waiting-room for Roger’s own office—said former employee, one Agladore Tilden Hendon, is near-simultaneously hurling invective, explanations, and pleas regarding his string of professional malfeasances and failures, at Roger’s departing back.

Ms. Looker, sitting at her desk to the right of the double doors to Roger's office, silently huffs. She is annoyed and unimpressed, and in the middle of a phone call. Her left-side counterpart, Mr. Wei, smoothly skirts his desk and squarely blocks the former employee from following Roger.

“Your noon appointment’s waiting in your office, Roger,” he reminds Roger, as per usual. Roger nods his acknowledgement and doesn’t bother informing Mr. Wei that reminders for _this_ appointment are hardly necessary. His noon appointment is a treasured routine—has only rarely been late or postponed in nearly seven months of their standing engagement. And said appointment had never _missed_ their engagement entirely, aside from that time he’d gone one accidental and losing round with a Mister Mime invisible wall.

Even then, the engagement had only been missed because the emergency room’s security-team had been Johnny-on-the-spot about keeping concussed patients from sneaking out before their emergency contact had arrived.

And, thankfully, there’ve been no weapons-related injuries or hospital _stays_ , so far.

So, yes. Roger Clifford is smiling as he opens his office doors and pauses just past the threshold, his favorite and oldest pet-name for his appointment rumbling out of him like a sated sigh. Said appointment, perched on the leading edge of Roger’s desk like every wet dream Roger hadn’t known he was missing out on, looks up from his new phone—a gift from Roger—and grins, placing the device on the desk behind him.

“Hey-hey, butch,” Detective Harry Goodman says, low and relaxed. The grin shines out all the wider for a single concession to the summer (aside from _not_ wearing one of the ten million windbreakers he owns): a clean-shaven face.

Even after seven or eight weeks of seeing this strangely sensitive-vulnerable version of his _favorite face_ ever, Roger is still thrown for a pleasant loop every time he does. Is still overtaken by the urge to see that winsome boyishness at about belt-level and worshiping his cock.

Is _commanded_ by his basic instinct to mark it in unmistakable ways, as has frequently been the case since the removal of the beard.

The _only_ thing Roger loves more than seeing those rather pretty lips wrapped ‘round his cock is watching his come cover and run down every inch of several appealing, rapturous and sated expressions.

Roger’s already anticipating their latest near-daily _appointment_ . . . starting with Harry’s graceful slither-drop from desk-edge, to floor—to knees that don’t care for that drop, but assent to it with little more than a soft, acknowledging grunt from their owner.

He also, concurrently, imagines bending that long, switchblade-lean body over his desk, with the sturdy blue jeans pushed down a bit and the lightweight flannel shirt shoved up a bit . . . to provide the desired access for Roger’s strict, but admiring hand and ready, claiming cock.

Or perhaps having that modestly proportioned, but shapely arse—gone a furious and almost fevered red from Roger’s attention—sat in his lap, naked as the day it’d been gifted to the world. As sexy, _hungry_ , and _needy_ as the rest of that gorgeous body, and the origin of pure ecstasy as it bounces on and off Roger’s cock like one possessed. . . .

. . . or, perhaps, all three might be workable today. In turn.

Roger’s always been ambitious and a dreamer. A be-er, a do-er . . . and an _achieve-er_.

And indeed, Roger suddenly wants to see his possessive, tightly gripping hands creating fresher, handprint-shaped bruises on pale, narrow hips (not terribly far from the nearly-as-fresh, handprint-shaped bruises slightly further back, on Harry’s pale, proportionate arse), _at least_ as much as he wants to see that body otherwise marked or taking his cock.

“Hello, yourself. Where’re Torchic and Pikachu?” he asks in his lowest, most dangerous purr, and the smirk he receives is slow and sly and considering.

“I sent ‘em to take a nap in the Secret Nookie-Suite behind your office,” Harry says, shrugging and grinning a bit as he straightens and pushes himself away from Roger’s desk. He nods, once, in the direction of the discreet door set opposite to the huge bank of windows lining one side of Roger’s corner office. “Figured that today, we could have our usual dick o’clock appointment at your desk again. Or against your fantastic view . . . again.”

Roger smirks, glancing briefly at his truly breathtaking view of Ryme City, but then quickly returns his gaze to the best view of all. “Mm, it’s like you’re a mind-reader, detective. Shall we begin with you on your knees, as usual?”

Harry shrugs again, and his smirk is really a slightly silly, very smitten smile. “Maybe later tonight? I’m just, ah, really jonesin’ to be bent over or shoved against something sturdy.”

Roger’s scarred left eyebrow shoots up in ironic question. “And this differs from your usual mood . . . how?”

“Mostly in intensity,” Harry admits calmly, but his keen, dark eyes are all cyclone, furor, and lightning. He starts moving closer in a slow, vaguely threatening half-stalk. Roger moves away from the threshold to his office, for once without closing the doors behind him, in a moment of enthusiasm-fueled forgetfulness. He matches Harry step for step, so that they’ll meet as they usually do: about halfway across the austere, Spartan, rather cavernous office. “When I say ‘jonesin,’ I mean: ‘ _I’m probably gonna keel-over, dead_ , if you don’t bend me over or shove me against something sturdy. _Soon_.”

“Ah. Well, then,” Roger murmurs, and it’s at least half-growl. “I’ll do my best to keep you in the pink. It’s part of my burgeoning philanthropic _curriculum vitae_ , lifesaving. Didn’t you know?”

“So . . . you’re doing me a favor . . . shoving your dick in me at every available opportunity? Is that it? Makin’ sure I get my five-times-daily dose of Vitamin D: Clifford-style?” _Both_ of Harry’s brows draw in, and even though his tone is dry and sardonic, his bright gaze and warm smile gutter. “I’m your good deed for the day?”

Roger’s breath catches and his step falters as the final meter between them holds, with Harry also drifting to an uncertain stop and biting his lip.

“I, erm . . . what I meant was that _I_ was the recipient of my own philanthropy. _You_ , detective, are the most sinful, indulgent, necessary kindness I’ve ever let myself accept. Whether or not I actually deserve or have earned you is up for debate.” It’s Roger’s turn to make an admission, recalling—as he can’t help but do, with his latest gone-over-the-brink employee still arguing at Mr. Wei mere yards behind him—that even with the progress he’s made taken into consideration, he has a very long way to go. _Especially_ long, before someone like Harry choosing to be with him, live with him, and maybe even _love_ him, makes any sort of sense.

But it’s difficult for even Roger to hold onto such megrims when Harry’s smile and gaze turn a little wry, then don’t lose warmth but _gain_ it. Exponentially.

“You don’t have to earn me, Roger . . . just keep me,” he says, flushed and suddenly come-over meek, but sincere. Perhaps a bit shy, too. Then, his gaze skitters away, even as his smile widens and his flush deepens. “Keep me in the marathon aggro-dickings and enthusiastic blow-jays to which I’ve become accustomed, that is. I may be cheap, Business Boy, but I ain’t easy.”

“On the contrary.” Roger slowly closes the last bit of distance between them with paced, deliberate steps. He doesn’t stop until he’s looking up into Harry’s eyes. Until Harry’s smiling down into his and leaning in, all sweetly uncertain hope and need. His hands, half-raised to Roger’s shoulders, hover, as if awaiting a signal that his usual desperate-tight clinching of Roger’s neck is still acceptable. Roger won’t and can’t imagine a future where that isn’t the case, so he takes those wrists and pulls Harry’s arms up to his shoulders and over, until Harry gets the picture and takes over the job . . . beaming at Roger when Roger’s hands settle on his hips, with clear intent to slide around to his arse. “Being with you is the easiest thing in the world, detective. The easiest thing I’ve ever done.”

That flush is back and more intense than ever—so much more noticeable and widespread, now that Harry’s clean-shaven. Despite being just over five years Roger’s senior, he looks almost too young for Roger to be pursuing a . . . whatever they’re pursuing, with him.

However, _despite that_ , after barely three months of cohabitation, Roger’s already spoken to his attorneys about potential marital agreements, divisions of assets, and . . . grimmer necessities, such as power of attorney and last will and testament.

_After barely three months of cohabitation_ , Roger is _already certain_ that, in time, he will approach Harry about these practicalities—perhaps fancied-up in romantic terms . . . during a world cruise, or a ride in a hot air balloon complete with a champagne dinner, or . . . something extravagant. But the only matter up for debate is the timing and presentation, not the eventuality of it. He’s never trusted _anyone_ as fully as he trusts Harry Goodman—never felt the need or urge to. And now, those needs, and urges are . . . urg _ent_.

It’s increasingly difficult to not claim every bit of Harry in every way he can, despite his rational mind. The mind that’s built the rebranded CNM&E—once a local, boutique LLC media company under Roger’s father—into a multi-region titan of industry and finance. That same mind is telling him that such gestures, no matter how genuine, would frighten any half-sane person into the witness protection program. And yet. . . .

Even in his most rational mind, the constraints are a necessary evil he _must_ heed, not a set of boundaries that he finds both sensible and understandable beyond that baseline necessity.

“You gettin’ soft on me, Clifford . . . so to speak?” Harry murmurs, warm and relaxed, as he presses himself flush against Roger, with just enough of a shimmy to be an outrageous and welcome tease.

Roger’s hands clench on Harry’s arse and he holds the detective closer, coming up almost on tiptoe to steal a quick, biting kiss. He wants to declare his love—despite having never been in love before, Roger Clifford is about as shy of stating that fact as he is about everything else about which he feels so strongly and irrevocably—but he refrains from that, as well. Out of hard-learned habit.

The few times he’s done so with Harry haven’t been received well. Nor have they been received poorly. Harry doesn’t seem disdainful of the sentiment or disapproving, pleased or welcoming. Merely bewildered by it, bordering on . . . anxious. Even frightened.

Here, at least, is where very atypical timidity comes into play for Roger: He’s found it simpler and less worrisome—less nerve-wracking—to simply avoid that specific phrase, than to confront Harry over his reaction to it.

Even though he’s . . . mostly certain Harry feels the same or is on the way to feeling the same.

Thus, Roger’s become an old-hand at deflecting the largest and still-growing truth of himself, and turn his _I love you, Harrys_ into simple sexual innuendo and aggressive commands that make Harry feel _anything_ but anxious. And make Roger, himself, feel anything but frustrated and regretful.

“If you’re eager to find out just how . . . _soft_ I am, right now, that’s a curiosity I’m willing to sate. Go stand behind my desk with your hands braced on the surface. Spread your legs shoulder-width, close your eyes, and hold that position while I make sure we have uninterrupted privacy.” After stealing another kiss, this one not-so-quick, Roger backs out of Harry’s arms with a reassuring squeeze of the man’s arse. The whimper caused by these simultaneous events only makes Roger harder and more eager to do something about that. His smirk, as he backs toward the doors to his office, is a dangerous, knife-edge gleam of teeth . . . of threat and promise. “ _Don’t move_ until and unless I give you permission.”

Harry’s wide eyes get wider and he blinks rapidly, his mouth dropped open in a slight, but familiar, awed gape.

“A-And if I disobey?” he manages to creak out. Roger lets his smirk turn as stony and immovable as he can manage. As stony and immovable as Harry _needs and wants_ it to be.

“Then you’ll shortly find sitting to be rather uncomfortable for the next two _days_ , rather than for just the next twelve hours,” Roger says, low and negligent, splaying and slightly extending his left hand while clenching the fingers. And from the new flush that takes Harry’s face and probably his entire body, the gesture doesn’t go unnoticed.

Harry lets out a slow, harsh, long breath. His next breath in is practically a stuttered gasp. “Boy. You sure don’t give a guy much incentive to be obedient.”

“Of course, not. Not when you take . . . _correction_ so enthusiastically and well, detective. Into position. _Now_. And _don’t. Move_ ,” Roger reminds and commands, all heat and steel, then turns toward the doors to his office and the still-escalating conflagration not far beyond them.

“ _Whatever you say, butch_ ,” Harry acquiesces breathily from behind him, husky-hungry, soft-submissive, which makes Roger grin ridiculously, since Harry can’t see it. All _Harry_ can see is Roger’s usual prowling, confident strut.

. . . and all _Roger_ can see is that idiot _still_ arguing with his bloody executive assistants—or trying to. Ms. Looker is ignoring him in favor of her call, and Mr. Wei is simply nodding graciously and accommodatingly, clearly attempting to keep Hendon calm and out of Roger’s hair, while no doubt steering him out of the office.

It might have been working, but Hendon just catches sight of Roger over Mr. Wei’s large shoulder and starts trying to get past the bearishly built young assistant, to harangue his former employer.

“ _Hold call._ Executive security to Mr. Clifford’s office. Yellow, five-seven-five. _Resume call._ Yes, _of course_ , Saito-san, Mr. Clifford and the board would _certainly_ like to see those quarterly numbers! For the past twelve quarters and, if you have them available, projections for the next twelve, thank you kindly,” Ms. Looker finishes, sounding pleasant and unruffled, having barely paused her call to give the order to Roger’s personal security detail. That tone and air of calm reserve coupled with her primly nondescript gray suits make Lena Looker the apparently less physically threatening of Roger’s assistants.

Wei Li, however, is almost effusively warm and friendly, and stylishly dressed, as always—as if he should be in a magazine, or the window of a store retailing adaptable charm and slightly quirky business-casual wear.

Roger absently thinks it would be a shame if Mr. Wei had to stir himself and possibly tear or otherwise ruin that outfit. He _also_ knows that, should such prove necessary, Mr. Wei _could and would_. So would Ms. Looker, and never mind her twenty-two years on Mr. Wei.

(Despite their utmost professionalism and natural flair for the job, neither of Roger’s executive assistants have _been_ executive assistants _all_ their lives.)

Roger huffs, annoyed and slightly incensed over this nonsense disturbing not only him, but two of his employees who actually know how to do their jobs and excel at them. “Oh, _do_ get out, Mr. Hendon, and stop harassing my people! _Disappear_ , while Ms. Looker or Mr. Wei are still inclined to approve H.R.’s no doubt _discreet_ professional assessment and recommendation to your potential next employer,” he barks, sneering, and icily disdainful. Even Ms. Looker pauses in her charming of Saito-san to frown. Hendon blinks at Roger, then narrows his eyes in a glare. It’s about as effective as if the man had started doing the Chicken Dance.

“Come, Mr. Hendon, let me escort you to your car,” Mr. Wei says gently, and almost paternally. “On our way, we can perhaps brainstorm some ideas for your professional life after CNM&E. I _do_ have several friendly business contacts in the Kanto Region, including Ever Grande City, Sootopolis, Mauville, Mossdeep—and even one in Saffron City, if you like a lot of glitz and a fast pace! Ha, and don’t we all. . . ?”

Mr. Wei had taken Hendon’s elbow smoothly and begun steering the irate ex-assistant director of Public Relations from the executive waiting area to the bank of elevators in the hall. And Hendon trudges along hesitantly, but complacently enough. At least until the three-person security detail gangs-through the wide, plexiglass doors, stun-batons in-hand and on-ready, startling nearly everyone into shocked freezes.

“Oh, for the love of all that’s holy,” Ms. Looker sighs clearly, in the sudden, brief silence, while likely reaching for the Sinnoh-special, modified miniature sten-pistol she keeps strapped to the underside of her desk. A souvenir of her days with the International Police, and not _so_ different from Harry’s own illicitly modified concealed carry.

The moment after Ms. Looker’s annoyed and beleaguered exclamation, three things happen:

One of the security detail—the third one in and the first to recover from the apparently contagious shock-freeze—quickly aims and fires his stun-baton.

Hendon hiss-yelps like a meowth that’s been sprayed from a water bottle, and flails and stumbles. Next to him, Mr. Wei goes down like a loose-limbed redwood, already unconscious from the baton’s debilitating blast.

Ms. Looker swears and gains her feet already aiming her sten-pistol at Hendon: torso-height, like law enforcement the world over tends to train into candidates.

Her shot only just misses Hendon, whose flailing stumble jerks him out of her line of sight. But he recovers with surprising speed, his wide-eyed glare going straight to Roger.

Despite not having suffered injury, he seems far from rational or right-minded. But then, had he been right minded—and of average competence—he’d have not been sacked in the first place. Least of all, by the head of CNM&E, himself. In person.

Before Roger can roll his eyes and mutter something goading and sarcastic, the man’s hurtling across the space separating them—staggering, really, having not fully regained his balance. But he hardly seems to miss it, or so hints his jelly-legged, wobbly lope.

The distance between them seems to be closing in nanoseconds and Roger, though no stranger to being physically attacked—he’s earned every whisper of his rep for being eminently attackable, in terms of his personality and actions, and he freely, unapologetically admits that—he isn’t especially adept at fielding the sort of bum’s-rush tackle that’s probably about to result in an emergency room visit of his own.

The other two on the security-team have shoved their peer with the hasty trigger-finger out of the way and are aiming at Hendon—and, incidentally, Roger. They’re not yet firing, thankfully. But before either of them can get a clear bead on Hendon, Roger’s roughly knocked aside by something barreling by from behind him like a juggernaut. He staggers and falls on his arse as it arrows past him.

It then collides with Hendon with a brutal sound of impact.

Both juggernaut and ex-employee go down with loud grunts: one furious, and one startled and confused. Pained.

The latter is soon making more pained and frightened noises, as the clearly enraged juggernaut recovers from the tackle and straddles his target, pinning him. Without pause, said juggernaut silently starts raining down sharp-fast, efficient blows that crack and chunk, depending on where they land.

“Harry, what—what in the _hell_ do you think you’re doing?!” Roger exclaims, torn between concern and horror, and something far less civilized, but far _more_ satisfied with this outcome for several reasons.

By the time Ms. Looker and the security-lead drag a flailing Harry off a blubbering and barely conscious Hendon—with the one who’d stunned Wei, checking the executive assistant’s vitals, and the third disgustedly restraining Hendon’s wrists and quelling his struggles with little effort—Roger has gotten almost dazedly to his feet.

“ _Stop, Harry. Immediately_ ,” he commands in a voice that feels shaky, yet doesn’t sound it. He’s both surprised and not when Harry complies without hesitation, this time, going limp in the grasps of the security-lead and Ms. Looker. His profile is strangely serene and still, but for several slow, obviously steadying breaths. The color at his cheeks is high, while the rest of his face seems unhealthily pale.

Finally, Harry straightens, bearing up under his own weight with deliberate, slow movements.

“It’s cool. I’m cool. Let go,” he says, sounding half-absent and half-awake, which sets off all sorts of alarm-bells for Roger. And though the security-lead half-turns to Roger, as if he thinks letting go is a sound and obvious idea, Ms. Looker merely looks grimmer and holds on tighter.

Roger’s never before noticed how strong her shoulders look and how solid her biceps are, in such unassuming gray or tan tweeds and wools.

“Escort the assailant to the CNM&E security center for processing and release. _Today_ , thank you,” Roger seethes when the third security person doesn’t hop-to instantly. The man starts, then hauls Hendon to his feet, paying no mind to broken-nosed gurgles and whingeing about “this incident going on my record.”

When the glass door shuts behind them, Roger looks at his still restrained lover and sighs. “If they let you go, will you deign to control yourself, detective? Or will you continue doing your best impersonation of a complete horse’s arse?”

Harry stiffens for several, dragged-out moments . . . then sags slightly, instead of going dramatically limp. He’s still bearing up under his own weight, but each breath out is ragged and gusting. Each breath in is grudging and clipped.

“’M fine. Lemme go.”

Both Looker and the security-lead wait for Roger’s yea-or-nay. He sighs and nods once. When they release Harry’s arms, those arms drop to his side and he starts to drift off toward Mr. Wei’s desk, unsteady and hesitant. Then he stops and lists toward the glass doors. His breathing sounds desperate and pained.

“I . . . gotta find Tim,” he says, slurred, and as pained- and desperate-sounding as his breathing. Confused and panicked. “He’s . . . I gotta make sure he’s safe. They’ll go after him, too.”

Having already started after Harry, Roger tsks when he’s within touching distance, announcing his presence to the keyed-up, dissociating detective. “Tim and Lucy, and their partners are fine. They’re visiting Lucy’s parents for a few days, remember?” he murmurs, putting light, bracing hands on Harry’s tense biceps. They get even more tense, but quickly release, and more than Roger would have expected.

“World’s spinnin’, butch,” Harry mumbles, his breathing light and fast.

“One of many things Earth is known for, detective. Come, let’s get you somewhere quiet and less public. You’re a bit of a mess, at the moment.”

When Roger pulls the shaking man against him, sheltering him with his shorter, but steadier body, Harry leans heavily into that protective embrace.

“Bright an’ fast. _Spinnin’_ ,” he mutters unhappily, listing even more, as Roger leads him back towards the office. Behind them, the two security personnel are handling a reviving Mr. Wei, and Ms. Looker is directing the building AI to send a medic to the executive floor. “Fucking _hot_ , too.”

“Of course, it is. You’re having a panic attack and you’re hyperventilating. I’m frankly amazed you haven’t passed out,” Roger says, channeling his inner-Ms. Looker to sound unruffled and matter of fact. At least until the doors to his office have closed behind himself and Harry. “I’ll have the AI lower the climate and intensify the oxygen-content. Then, we’ll get you settled in the Secret Nookie-Suite, so you can relax and calm yourself properly.”

“Will . . . will you stay with me, Roger?” Harry half-gasps, half-pleads, turning those big, confused dark eyes on Roger, who maintains his game face with more effort than he’s used to expending to do so. “P-Please?”

And it takes Roger a few moments to gather himself and master the creaking affirmative that wants to come bustling out of him, frantic and desperate.

“You know I will, Harry,” he says, as firm and sedate as if to do anything _but stay_ would be impossible—and Roger silently concedes it just might be—or as if he were Ms. Looker fresh out of a deep and restful meditation. “Don’t be silly.”

“’Kay. Sorry,” Harry mumbles then stumbles, having gone uncoordinated, as well as detached and worryingly pliant in the space of seconds. “Sorry. I—Roger. . . ? ‘S . . . _bright_ in here, Roger.”

Roger holds Harry closer, arm clutching around his waist as they pass the threshold into his office. Channeling his inner-Ms. Looker has never been so difficult and so necessary. “I’ll have the AI adjust that in a moment, too, love. Now, watch your step. . . .”

#

“Where’re Pikachu and Torchic?” Harry asks just over eight hours later, sounding both relaxed and chagrined as he all-but minces out of the suite behind Roger’s office.

Roger—in the Zone and micromanaging his usual twelfth-hour of multitasking by ping-ponging between his phone, his tablet, and his office desktop server-system—hums absently, but doesn’t shift his attention, much. “They bounced out of here shortly after you popped in the shower. Pikachu seemed determined to absent himself and Torchic wasn’t about to let him do so alone. Not while he was in such a brooding funk, anyway.”

“Huh.” Harry drifts silently closer by a few yards, then pauses. “Pikachu’ll probably drag Torchic to the _Hi-Hat_ , since Tim and Luce are out of town. Sucker’s bet, Nando’ll text me within the hour, to tell me they’ll bunk at his place till morning.”

“Hmm. No doubt hopped-up on that high-octane, liquid methamphetamine Mr. Marcil passes off as coffee.”

“Yeeeaaah,” Harry agrees, both wistful and jealous. Then he yawns, and another silence falls after that: long, awkward, and expectant. Harry moves closer to the desk and Roger’s legendary, nigh-unbreakable in-the-Zone focus starts showing up cracks and fissures.

“I, ah, think they wanted to give us a chance to . . . talk,” Harry ventures, moving even closer. Close enough that Roger can smell the scent of his own body-wash and shampoo, mixed distractingly with the scent of Harry’s skin. His typing falters and he loses the thread of his tasks in seconds. “Or whatever.”

“Mm.” Roger, too, believes this to be the case. And he’s thought about what he wants to say, what he _needs_ to say . . . and what _Harry needs to hear_ , at great length. “Presumptuous of the little beasts, isn’t it?”

_Another_ silence. This one holds until Harry’s close enough to lay a hand on Roger’s tense shoulder, and does, gentle and weighty.

“Listen, butch . . . _Roger_ ,” Harry begins, sounding sad, scared, and lost. His grip tightens a little. “I—”

But before he can conclude that _I_ -statement, which is likely to be an apology, Roger’s on his feet. His phone and tablet are on the floor.

And Harry . . . Harry’s been grabbed by the hips, roughly maneuvered around, and shoved against Roger’s desk _hard_. He sits on the edge without resistance or reluctance, then gasps and moans helplessly into the biting, aggressive kiss Roger doesn’t so much give, as take.

And _take_.

When breathing once again becomes an action-item on Roger’s current shortlist of priorities, he breaks the kiss suddenly, occasioning a desperate, rumbling groan from low in Harry’s chest. His _bare_ chest, as Harry’s dressed in nothing more than a spare pair of pyjama bottoms he’d started keeping in the office’s living suite two months ago. They ride low, as they always have, offering easy access via a narrow, dark Trail of Heaven that’s surely the greatest road-to-temptation known to man.

Roger runs his hands up Harry’s bare, shower-warm sides, then through the tapering smatter of dark-brown chest hair that leads over gently defined abs. Whereon, it becomes that Trail-of-Heaven, which winds over taut territory Roger can and _has_ mapped with his tongue while half-asleep and with his eyes shut.

“Roger. . . .” Harry whispers, leaning in again and trying to catch Roger’s lips. Roger lets him, but only briefly.

“Are you feeling better, now, detective?” he murmurs on Harry’s ever-tempting lips.

“I . . . yeah. Yes.” Harry says, though he sounds suddenly frustrated and exasperated. He huffs a humid, silent, self-mocking laugh on Roger’s mouth and stands up once more. “Sleep usually helps. A lotta sleep. So does, um . . . company.” This pause feels gentler, if melancholy. “Thank you for staying with me, till I finally zonked out.”

Roger kisses Harry again . . . slower, but still aggressively—downright forcefully. He doesn’t correct Harry’s misassumption by admitting he’d only left the suite shortly before sunset and hadn’t managed to focus on work again until after full-dark. Even then, the sense memory of lying in bed with Harry in his arms, so shaken and vulnerable and profoundly _asleep_ —in a way Roger’s never seen his lover sleep—had been waiting to distract and discombobulate Roger utterly.

Even the cool, soothing light of the moon illuminating the office hadn’t settled Roger’s frayed nerves, jangled mood, and wild thoughts for long. Not when the memory of Harry’s warm, trusting, and occasionally restless body, snuggled and somehow small in the protective corral of his own, was there to raze Roger’s defenses and pragmatism to the ground.

It isn’t long before Harry’s given up trying to keep up with Roger and simply submits to Roger’s determined taking, as usual. Shivering and shaking, he holds himself perfectly still against Roger’s wired, buzzing-frantic body. As kisses turn back into predatory nips and bites, which then turn ear- and neck-ward, Harry starts gasping and groaning again, his cock a hard, hot line pressed against Roger’s abdomen.

“P-Please. . . .” Harry rasps, his hips finally stuttering sharp and hard against Roger’s. And now, Roger breaks the kiss mercilessly to crowd Harry against the desk again. He gazes up into Harry’s lust-dazed eyes and doesn’t allow his own expression of cool, almost absent interest to shift. Not one iota.

Facial expressions haven’t been a part of their sometimes on-the-fly negotiations of their complimentary kinks and increasingly ritualized scenes. They’re certainly not a part of established protocol, but Roger tries to be ever attuned to what’s expected of and needed from him.

Especially where Harry Goodman is concerned.

“You, detective, need to learn to obey agreed-upon protocol and ritual. Need to obey my direct orders without deviation,” Roger informs him in an even, but hard tone. Harry’s breath stutters again, both anxious and aroused. He tries to stammer a response, but Roger busses his lips softly and sweetly, his hands burrowing under the sprung waistband of Harry’s pyjama bottoms. After stroking the points of Harry’s hips, he slides them ‘round from hips to arse, where they grab, clutch, and knead lean muscle. Roger leans back just enough to look Harry in those dark, round eyes. “When I tell you to be still, I mean that.”

“H-He . . . he was gonna _hurt_ you.” Harry’s Adam’s apple bobs and he hangs his head, avoiding Roger’s gaze to glare at Roger’s mouth. “You _can’t_ expect me to stand still like a good little soldier when someone’s trying to _hurt you_ , butch.”

Roger can feel the tick at the left corner of his mouth, it’s so pronounced. The earnest and unself-conscious ferocity of Harry’s sentiment makes him want to grin like an idiot. For a few moments, anyway. As always, the deeper meaning and results of Harry’s loyalty come crashing in like another barreling, arrowing juggernaut, and Roger no longer wishes to smile. “I expect you to do as you’re told, when you’re told, once we’ve started one of our scenes.” _I also expect you to_ not _throw yourself into danger, as if every pathetic risk to me, or anyone else, suddenly makes_ your life _fucking expendable_.

But Roger knows telling Harry Goodman to do better at protecting himself before rescuing others, will only earn him a look of complete incomprehension. A _genuine_ one, which makes Harry’s willingness to sacrifice himself for others at any given moment even _more_ terrifying and awful for Roger to process and accept.

“As per our negotiations, detective, we don’t break scene and we follow our established protocols and rituals,” he reasserts and hopefully reinforces.

But Harry snorts and starts wriggling as if he means to pull out of Roger’s arms and walk away. “Right. I forgot. _The Contract_. I’m surprised you haven’t laminated and framed it, then hung copies all around the penthouse, yet. You _are_ CEO Control-Freak and Master of the Micromanage after all—never happy unless you’re controlling someone or demanding something through the punitive power of the proviso.”

And though he’s looking away, pursuant to turning and walking away, Roger’s hand landing on his throat, gently, but heavy and pointed, stops him instantly. Roger slowly, but steadily increases the intensity of his grasp, noting that Harry’s breathing is more like a _very_ specific sort of gasping _only_ Roger ever sees and hears.

Usually followed swiftly by Harry coming hard, but with soft, desperate cries that could rival the singing of angels.

“Once we’ve started a scene, we don’t break roles, rules, or responsibilities unless it’s life-or-death, detective. _That_ part of our negotiations is _non_ negotiable.” Roger’s thumb strokes soothingly along the rabbiting pulse at Harry’s throat. Wide, enthralled dark eyes are glued to Roger’s face with lust and anticipation.

“It . . . it might not’ve been life or death. Yet. But he was trying to . . . hurt you.” Harry’s breathing is growing lighter, faster, and uneven. His pupils are dilated and his eyes wide. His lips are even more flushed than the rest of him, and kiss- and bite-swollen.

Harry Goodman is sinking rapidly into his capacious subspace.

And Roger feels as if he’s growing, fitting more closely into the mantle of Dominance he’s been drawn to deeply since his first sexual experience during his final year of boarding school, and which has come to color every other aspect of his life, as well.

“Non. Negotiable, detective. Not simply because you’re not to disobey me, but because snatching back your power and will suddenly, after you’ve submersed yourself in your role is clearly harmful for you. Once again, your impulsive, thunderingly unhealthy over-reactions to a problem that really wasn’t, triggered the PTSD you _refuse_ to see a psychologist for help with,” Roger grits, then unclenches his teeth and takes a moment to master _himself_. “Which resulted in a panic attack that was far worse than the others I’ve witnessed, and left you disoriented and barely functioning, ahead of a total _physical_ collapse, as well.”

“And? You _know_ initiating foreplay and even fucking me while I’m sleeping, or unconscious was something I wanted to negotiate into our Contract. I had and have no problem with that, butch. Not when it’s you,” Harry murmurs, smirking. Roger’s brows lift pointedly.

“But _I did_. And I still do.” Frowning, Roger strokes Harry’s throat with his thumb. “I have no interest in _stealing_ your power and control. Nor your consent. I prefer that you give them to me because that’s what’s best for you and what you _want and need_ , from time to time.”

“Me giving blanket consent to you to wake me up by fucking me sounds like something I _don’t_ want and need? Like something I am _not_ happily, explicitly offering to you?” Harry rolls his dilated eyes and snorts. “So, then, what would a _yes, please_ sound like? Just out of academic curiosity. . . ?”

Roger lets his hand rest more heavily and clench a bit, into an actual clasp of Harry’s throat. “This isn’t a game, detective. Not _just_. Giving over your power and letting go of your control can’t be half-arsed and willy-nilly. Can’t just be an outfit you put on and take off without warning or consequences. It _has_ to be all or nothing, or it doesn’t mean anything and doesn’t work. And _you_ have to trust me to take care of you, to sate your wants and satisfy your needs. To return your power and control when our scene is over—not a moment too soon or too late.” He lets a very pointed beat pass, long and laden with meaning. “If you can’t trust me to do that, then . . . we can’t have . . . _this_.”

Roger’s clasp becomes a grip. Then a clutch. And Harry moans, wavering and long, his cock twitching in sexual semaphore on Roger’s abdomen. The wet spot on Harry’s pyjamas and Roger’s button-down shirt spreads a little faster.

“ _R-Roger_ —”

Leaning in to nuzzle Harry’s chin, Roger then presses tender, urgent kisses along Harry’s jawline. “You can’t ever do anything like that again. No diving into the fray like bloody Batman—that’s why I have a security detail, as well as executive assistants with checkered pasts—and _no breaking the scene when you’re at your most suggestive and vulnerable_. No breaking the scene, _at all_. I won’t tolerate it again. You either trust me to take care of you—of us both, before, during, and after.” _Forever, even_. “Or you don’t. There’re no half-measures here.”

Harry’s dilated eyes flutter closed, pale, grayish lids scrinching tight. He looks more tired and lost, frightened and young than Roger’s ever witnessed. His kissable lips purse and press together tight for a couple of minutes, then they relax. He licks them nervously and his eyes open.

“I _do_ trust you, I just . . . it goes against every experience of my life to sit back and let anyone hurt the people I—” Harry’s gaze falters and he shakes his head, white-white teeth anchoring in his bottom lip. “I wish you’d let me teach you some kinda self-defense, butch—even a basic judo-throw, for fuck’s sake . . . _something_. If anything were to happen to you and it’s something I _coulda_ stopped but _didn’t_ . . . didn’t even _try_ when I had the chance. . . .” he makes a soft, broken sound like a wounded animal. “I think that’d kill me.”

Roger doesn’t gape. At least not expression-wise, but inside he’s devastated in the best way. He starts to speak, genuinely curious about what’ll come out, even as his heart feels as if it’s mushroom cloud-ed in his chest, lighting up his inner horizon with radiance and magnificence that could kill in an instant, only . . . Roger’s still standing. Standing taller than ever.

And possibly glowing.

“You have to trust that it won’t, Harry. Trust _me_. Trust me to shoulder and see to these worries and burdens _for you_ , for the time we’re in the scene. Afterward, you can have that back to bear on your own, if you wish. But in our scenes your worries and burdens are mine to do with as I see fit. As are you,” Roger says, gentle, but firm.

Immovable.

Harry shivers and doesn’t open his eyes for a few minutes. But when he does, they meet Roger’s uncertainly, but squarely, and he nods once.

“You . . . never doubt me, Roger. Haven’t, not even once. Not even after I fail you. . . .” Harry swallows and frowns and looks down, his face flushing and blanching repeatedly. “That you have so much faith in me, in spite of . . . of e-everything, especially shit like . . . like today, makes me wanna be _better_ for you. Be what you _deserve_ or, failing that, what you want and are willing to put up with.”

Harry’s crooked smile is both pained and brilliant. Beautiful. So _trusting_ and, again, given-over, but not merely because of the lingering effects of subspace. Roger could no more fail to return that smile, along with kisses and appreciation, than he could walk away from Harry Goodman now, or ever.

Though it feels, and not briefly, as if every inch of his rediscovered heart is shattering, even as it’s dunked in acid.

“I promise I’ll try harder to abide by and trust in the letter and spirit of our Contract—to trust you to take care of me the way you _always_ do, when I’m smart enough to let you,” Harry adds wryly, but while sounding and looking less pained and more brilliant.

Roger smiles. Smirks, really, and brings his right hand up to card through Harry’s hair—just starting to grow out a bit—before anchoring in a handful and yanking down on it hard for the impact. Harry’s cry is soft, sensual . . . welcoming, and joyously submissive. When Roger releases Harry’s hair to tilt his face back up by the chin, tears escape those dark-dark eyes on every blink.

“I’m glad we’re on the same page, detective, but your behavior still warrants highlighting and correction,” Roger leans in to whisper and mouth on Harry’s racing pulse, with teeth applied sparingly for emphasis. Then, not so sparingly as he continues their interrupted and paused, but not close to done scene. Harry’s breath, hot and toothpaste-minty, is harsh on his temple and cheek. “I _know_ how well you can behave for me, Harry Goodman. How obedient you can be, and how _proud_ you can make us both. I know you want to be and do _all those things for us both_ , right now. So, I’m giving you another chance to do just that. And I have every faith in you.”

His breathing stutters, quick, but light enough that Harry likely doesn’t notice—not while he’s still so firmly and suggestively in subspace. Roger lets himself bask in their togetherness and their current dynamic, before sinking into it and rising to the challenge of taking care of his high maintenance, but entirely worth the effort lover.

“You’re going to turn around, detective, then do as you were told this afternoon. You will brace your hands on my desk. You will spread your legs to . . . hmm, not to shoulder-width. To parade-rest. You will close your eyes. You will remain _completely still_ until I give you direction to do otherwise.”

“Y-Yes . . . Roger, _yes_. . . .” Harry sounds both anticipatory and afraid—overwrought, and certain that the thing he wants most will be the thing which is dangled then withheld.

A belief he and Roger often have in common, thanks to mostly M.I.A. fathers. Fathers whose periodic presences in their sons’ lives hadn’t helped much more than their absences had.

Of course, Roger’s level of self-awareness on this matter has been crystalized since his teens. Harry’s is still in-the-works, idealist and loyal son that he is.

And Roger—at least as loyal and vengeful on behalf of, as he is possessive about the people, things, and causes he supports—has _often_ , despite loving his and Harry’s scenes and roles and games, wanted to reach out to the man responsible for the dangerous, impulsive, headlong edge to Harry’s particular affinity for their scenes.

Reach out and _destroy_ the poor excuse for a father who’d had a hand in creating the man Roger has come to love so improbably and so intensely. Whose far-from-perfect parenting had planted the whispers and suggestions—the seeds of the recently unearthed and possibly never-to-be-slaked needs that run through Harry Goodman, deep and dark, like a subterranean river.

Roger can feel the bob of Harry’s Adam’s apple and the throb of his almost worryingly elevated pulse under his lingering lips, and is grateful for how powerfully it distracts him from thoughts that have no place in any of their scenes, despite having perhaps colored them for far too long, and to both their detriment.

He straightens and smiles into the kisses he demands from Harry’s mouth. Harry moans hoarsely and doesn’t kiss him back. But he opens to Roger’s slow, claiming explorations with no hesitation, like a flower to the sun. And when Roger ends the kiss suddenly, as per usual during their scenes, Harry doesn’t try to follow him for more. Doesn’t even whimper or make any noise of protest. His eyes are wide and steady on Roger’s face as if he’s half-hypnotized. But then he blinks, seeming to surface markedly from the simple, given-over baseline that is even the beginning hinterlands of his deep, intense subspace. His _safe-space_.

“Time to show me just how good and obedient you can be, my love,” Roger murmurs shakily and around a lump in his throat, after a few more minutes of that whispered appreciation and affection, reassuring kisses and caresses, and the growing ache and burn in his chest. He steps back to give Harry room to obey and doesn’t see nerves or hesitation in Harry’s rather glazed gaze, only that secret focus, given rein more completely than ever before in Roger’s presence.

Harry turns to face Roger’s desk with unhurried, but economic grace. With relief. He braces his hands on the desk, his spine arched slightly, long, lean muscles in arms, shoulders, and back gone gorgeously taut.

He spreads his legs, bare feet shuffling silently, until they’re at a military-precise parade-rest.

Harry’s eyes close. Roger knows this beyond all doubt, even without seeing it.

Smiling and feeling his favorite mantle slip over his shoulders—that of lover-Dom-caregiver—Roger retrieves supplies from his left hand, bottom drawer, even as his racing, unusually flailing mind relearns the task of mastering itself. The supplies are in the form of their preferred lubricant, a cream-based topical analgesic, a few bits and bobs which provide stimulus that Harry finds pleasant and torturous at turns, and the Jennings gag . . . which he quickly replaces with the wiffle-gag.

Tonight, the gagging is more about function, than style and kink—about freeing Harry from his DNA-deep need to make smart comebacks or spout amusing blarney on automatic—the usual things he uses to distract and misdirect them both.

Roger means not to be misdirected _tonight_. Nor ever again, if he can help it. Not on this subject.

Though, his wistful gaze lingers on the gag they both prefer most of all: jet-black, made of some space-age alloy, and shaped like a rather girthy, erect cock, which then fits into a harness that goes over the head to buckle on.

Harry, size-queen that he frequently can be, has compared this gag—with breathless, obsessive detail—to Roger’s cock. But always with the sincere and smugly _ravenous_ addendum of: “But yours is better, butch. And _bigger_.”

Some other night. _Soon_ , Roger promises them both, laying out the supplies in the order in which he’ll need them, to the right of Harry’s still, splayed right hand.

“So good for me, baby. You’re so good,” Roger murmurs soothingly, though Harry’s so deep in subspace by now that such reassurance and appreciation are likely unnecessary.

But it pleases Roger to give it, nonetheless.

He puts the wiffle gag on Harry, adjusting it quickly and correctly from practice. Harry is still and compliant, from the same.

“Is it causing you any discomfort?”

A soft, negative grunt.

“Are you still ready and willing to accept this attention from me?”

A soft, positive _groan_ that’s very much in the affirmative. _Desperate_ with affirmation.

Smiling rather solemnly, Roger at last removes his suit-jacket, then his tie. Both get tossed at the desk, in turn . . . with the tie sailing over the front edge and the pinstriped jacket landing half-on Roger’s monitor. Then Roger hooks his thumbs in the waistband of Harry’s pyjamas. He doesn’t push them down all the way . . . only to just below Harry’s pale, perfect arse.

Roger can, he supposes, be excused for losing himself not-so-briefly in staring, caressing, gripping-squeezing, and otherwise worshiping Harry, due to his own slipping control. On any other night, he’d have ended up on his knees, delivering kisses, nips, bites, and no-holds-barred tongueing.

Tonight, however, he restrains himself and recommits his focus. With his rock-steady left hand, he grasps Harry’s left arse cheek, intensifying his already ungentle grip until Harry’s gasping softly, continually through the gag.

Smirking, Roger intensifies the grip, then slowly lessens it, until he’s almost let go, entirely. When he _actually_ lets go, he near-instantly reinstates contact with stinging swat.

The flat thwap of his palm against Harry’s skin—which is still slightly patinaed by the bruises of recent spankings-past—makes a dramatic, satisfying sound that nonetheless does not reverberate even in Roger’s cavernous office.

Yet.

“This is not nor has it ever been an expression of my dissatisfaction or displeasure with you, Harry Goodman,” Roger murmurs on the skin of Harry’s right shoulder, interspersing kisses with gentle-sharp nips. He delivers another swat and Harry doesn’t so much as start or shiver, though his next breath in is longer and stuttered. _Relieved_. “This is my wants.” _Swat_. “My _needs_.” Hold. “My obsession.” Smack-grab-clench-hold . . . then matched and stuttered breaths from them both. Then _swat_. “This is my approbation.” Swat. “My trust.” Swat. “My faith in you.” **_SMACK_**. Swat-grab. _Squeeze_. Caress. _Swat_. “This is my recognition, appreciation, and worship of you.” Swat. “To you.” Swat. “ _For_ you.” _Smack-grab-hold_. “ _This_ , detective, is my claim and ownership, and yours of me.” _Squeeze._ Squeeze. Stroke. “This is my _dedication_ to you and to _us—this_ , Harry . . . this is _I love you_.

“And I _do_. I absolutely _adore_ you.”

Not even Harry’s usual repertoire of sweetly addictive moans and whimpers mar the attentive, stricken silence that reigns in the wake of Roger’s words . . . his _declaration_ , made in a way and at a time Harry can’t refute or joke it away.

Nuzzling Harry’s shoulder, his eyes tight-shut, too, Roger sighs. “Not in spite of your very human flaws, but because of them. Because they help make you _you_ , and . . . _I love_ you. I love you.”

And this time, rather than pausing to let that settle in or for any reaction, Roger leans into his role, into _their treasured dynamic_ , as diligently as he ever has.

The pace of his progressively forceful swats and smacks over the next few minutes is measured, then slightly staggered, but hardly unpredictable, for the most part. And Harry takes Roger’s hand beautifully, as does the fair skin of his arse. It begins to redden like a sunset, from left to cheek to right and, as ever, Roger is both satisfied and in dire need of more.

Always more.

The prints left by Roger’s wide, admiring palm _are_ mesmerizing . . . and they _linger_. Though . . . not forever.

But he and Harry both know the remedy for _that_. From practice, they know the remedy.

Reapplication.

Once Harry’s begun—unconsciously—to cant back toward Roger, his body minutely trembling with want and need that are humblingly genuine and gorgeously beatific, Roger lets his swats both lessen and lighten. Slow.

It isn’t long, or it doesn’t feel like long, before he’s simply rubbing Harry’s fever-warm, fever-red arse, pausing randomly for gentler squeezes than those in which either of them usually deal.

Roger knows Harry’s begun to surface a bit from his subspace when the detective stops shivering, and shudders once, hard, like a dog roused suddenly from a good dream. He makes a soft, sleepy interrogative noise: not questioning Roger’s actions, or lack thereof, but his own.

_Have I gone too deep and disobeyed you? Have I failed to follow protocol? Have I failed_ you _?_

“I love you,” is Roger’s reply and reassurance. He undoes his fly, freeing his ready and eager cock, before stepping closer to Harry again. When he’s pressed against Harry’s back, and his hard-on is throbbing and leaking on Harry’s arse as evidence of his own wants and needs—of his continued and growing desire for _their dynamic_ —he lets his hands settle on Harry’s narrow hips and squeezes them gently, as well.

“I don’t think I’ve _ever_ said that to anyone but you. I won’t belabor the point, if you wish me not to, but I will _never again_ refrain from reminding you, when I deem that reminding is what’s warranted, of my love,” he says, quietly, but with every ounce of integrity and steel in him. Two things he’d have once doubted the very existence of—at least regarding himself and matters of the heart or libido. “That said . . . there is no longer room for punishment in our scenes, Harry. Nor for . . . correction. No room for behavioral training that involves misusing pleasure and pain, or their combination.”

Harry’s clearly rising out of subspace and has been since before Roger began speaking. His entire body is losing its relaxed pliancy and gaining tension and stiffness that have nothing to do with arousal.

Roger takes a slow, deep, steadying and fortifying breath in. After releasing it in the same manner, he goes on: “You’ve _always_ been good for me. Loyal and dedicated and _wonderful_ , even and perhaps especially on the occasions you’ve been moved by fears for my safety and happiness, to step beyond the bounds of our Contract or even common notions of sanity. _You_ are an amazing and capable man, with a strong sense of character and self. So, there’s no need for you to abdicate responsibility for your behavior and choices in a misplaced effort to atone for wrongs, real or imagined. _You know_ what’s right and good behavior, and don’t need _me_ to punish it out of you or into you. If you wish to improve yourself . . . _improve_ _yourself_. And know that you have my support and admiration in that endeavor. Always.”

After several minutes of no response from a Harry who’s surfaced markedly, but still hasn’t given any sign, Roger holds him tighter. And, as if moved by an impulse he can no more fight than ignore, he thrusts once, hard, against Harry’s arse, then smacks an area that’s only somewhat pink, with especial force. And he smiles at the deepening of that rose-pink to rose- _red_. “If and when the pain-slut in you needs every fierce, ruthless inch of my hand and my cock, I will _never_ deny you. Not ever. I will be and give you _whatever_ you need, and I will never be less than dedicated, enthusiastic, and vigilant in demonstrating my love. But I _won’t_ use that love or its expression to be complicit in punishing you for being human. Not any longer. Your humanity is every beautiful, blessed bit of you, and from now, on, I will only ever _appreciate_ you for it. And if that appreciation needs to be a slap instead of a kiss . . . my willingness and enthusiasm won’t wane. But I will _never, ever again_ punish or reward you with my love. Only show you that I do love and appreciate you. _That, too, is nonnegotiable_. Do you hear me? Do you _understand_ me? And do you _agree with me_ , on this?”

Roger can feel the bob of Harry’s Adam’s apple and the throb of Harry’s almost worryingly elevated pulse under his hand, when he finally lets it rest again on Harry’s throat. That, as always, feels right and good—with the potential of being utterly perfect, provided they’re completely in agreement about the sentiment behind such gestures.

The silence continues to only be punctuated by the thudding of Roger’s own heart in his ears, and both his and Harry’s breathing. Roger’s is deep and fast, and Harry’s is soft and light through the wiffle gag. But after a worrying, ratcheting eternity, Harry speaks—muffled, though it is. His response is a low, gently growling moan that’s full of more _feeling_ than Roger can parse.

It’s also a very clear and unequivocal assent and _consent_ to their adjusted contract and dynamic.

It’s an unmistakable and deeply eager: _Yes, Roger._

Roger’s _elation_ is more than he can parse, too. Or even safely process, while maintaining his control for both their sakes. But his heart triphammers and _his_ pulse rabbits, too.

He notices that he’s thrusting and shoving his hard, wet cock against Harry’s arse without coordination or finesse, and wonders how long he’s been doing so. He doesn’t, however, let that give him pause. In fact, his efforts increase in speed and intensity, gliding along smooth, heated skin to a chorus of Harry’s once again desperate, ragged moans. His entire body is deeply flushed . . . enough that the angry flush of his arse doesn’t stand out as much.

“ _Give him to me, baby_ ,” Roger hears himself grunt as his body races beyond his control, toward a finish line that looms exponentially, like an apocalypse of bliss. “Give me my sweet, submissive detective. Give him to me because he’s who and what _you want_ to give, and because you _trust me_ to love and take care of him.”

Harry makes a strangled-strange sound that ends on a soft, sob-like moan. And his entire body relaxes against and into Roger. _Gives, and is given over_ to Roger’s appreciation and adoration in a way that’s as total—as _unrestrained_ , as it is distinctive.

Even more spurred on, Roger continues to frantically rub and thrust his leaking, painfully stiff cock all over Harry’s reddened arse. His hands clamp bruising-tight on Harry’s hips, his lips and teeth describing his devotion through busses and bites to Harry’s shoulders and nape. But the fever-heat of Harry’s abused, chastened flesh is a siren-call that Roger suddenly can’t resist. In this moment, it lures him even more powerfully than the perennial and addictive temptation that is the sweet-hot-tight entrance to Harry’s body—rendered even more accessible and tempting by the lubrication within arm’s easy reach and this unparalleled submission of Harry’s body.

After six ecstatic eternities of painting Harry’s arse and right hip with a near-endless supply of precome—not just as a sign of his ownership, but as a testament to his own need and desire—Roger’s lust-dazed instinct has him attempting a reach-around that is also utterly sincere, and has no finesse. But Harry’s cock, achingly rigid and flush against his body, doesn’t seem to mind that artlessness.

In all fairness, it never has.

Harry’s moans and groans, whimpers and gasps are all easily interpreted as pleas, gratitude, and egging-on, even through the wiffle gag. They’ve reached an urgency that fuels Roger’s desire and need at least as much as visualizing red handprints, _his handprints_ , glowing on pale, smooth skin does. More, even, than the knowledge that only _he_ has and has _ever_ had the privilege, permission, and honor to create and touch such claiming adornment on Harry Goodman’s flesh.

Throughout all of this, Harry’s held himself admirably still, his only motions the shivers and shudders he can’t consciously control, and the reverberation throughout his flesh of his breath and vocalizations.

“ _My_ Harry . . . my _love_ . . . I love you.” Roger babbles and groans and growls, sounding, in his fervor, like something gone feral . . . or gone rabid.

Harry whimpers through the gag, again. And, again, he is _unmistakable, unambiguous_ , and _unequivocal_ , though the direction of that certitude is a new one:

_I love you, too._

With a long, low, _loud_ groan, Roger thrusts his cock down and forward, shoving himself into the tight-hot junction below Harry’s arse and between his thighs, feeling instantly enervated after he does. As if he’ll die if he tries for the last thrust or two it’ll take to get him to the release that likely has solid plans to kill him.

But Harry—Roger’s _beloved detective_ —disobeys.

He _moves_.

He wriggles and wiggles back, until Roger slides forward between his thighs a bit more— _just enough_ -more. Then he clenches those quivering thighs together _tight_ , while shimmying minutely, and pushing his bruise-bedecked arse back against Roger.

The only thing hotter and more blissful than the sensory overload overtaking Roger, is the explosive release that results.

Roger comes with a shout that may-well be heard all the way in the Johto Region.

As he bears Harry into a more acute bend over the desk—all-but pinning him to the surface in a shaking, awkward semi-sprawl—Roger regains the will and energy to thrust. He shoves his spurting cock home (close to) for all his worth as his left hand grasps Harry’s hip hard enough to have broken skin, had Roger’s fingernails extended beyond his fingertips. His right hand ceases its furious, uncoordinated stroking of Harry’s cock to cup, fondle, and _squeeze_ Harry’s balls. To somehow, with a finesse his previous grips hadn’t possessed, incrementally increase the pressure of his hand from firm to tight, then from cruel to near-brutal.

Harry comes with a gasp, another long groan, then helpless, breathless, _overwhelmed_ cries.

By the time those cries have transitioned into soft, sated sobs, Roger’s cock has gone from nonstop spurting to sporadic. To random spurts interspersed with steady dribbling and droozling.

And he’s still more than half-hard. More than hard enough to keep shoving his over-sensitized cock between Harry’s slick, trembling thighs. Harry’s arse is still brand hot against Roger’s pelvis, the clutch of his tired muscles still intimate, determined, and obedient. Still the very breadth and height of love as Roger knows it.

“ _Love you_ ,” he moans, his body shaking and his cock twitching itself harder and higher. It isn’t long before the dribbles and droozles taper, and Roger’s thrusts increase in frequency and force. Harry’s muffled whimpers of encouragement, and pleased, high-pitched gasps greet every, desperate-fractious shove-forward of Roger’s urgently pistoning hips.

_It isn’t long before_ Roger comes again, agonizingly sweet-sharp, and mostly dry, surrounded by Harry’s heat and hunger, submission and love.

“I love you,” he tells Harry again, his hoarse, slurred voice barely audible even as his completely spent body practically collapses on Harry’s strong back, with both of them braced by Harry’s strong body. _Borne-up_.

Sated and safe, protected and cared for—in the way only his detective can and ever will manage—Roger lets himself drift a bit. Then a bit more. Then a _lot_.

And despite the soft, perfect nature of their afterglow, Roger remains fully aware of one thing, if nothing else: They’ve grown closer.

In ways that are innumerable and indescribable, even just tonight—never mind the months prior—he and Harry Goodman are now closer than they’ve ever been. And Roger has no doubt that, in future, they’ll grow closer, _still_.

They will _never_ not be growing closer. Never not be _coming closer._

Never.

Harry’s near-dazed humming—satisfied, lazy, and smug—is as lulling an _I love you, too, Roger_ , as any lullaby. More so. And Roger loves _Harry, back_. . . loves him to distraction and even more than ever . . . loves him even more than _everything that ever was and ever will be_. . . .

Loves—

#

**_You who shimmy shook my bone/ Leaving me stranded all in love on my own/ Do you think of me?/ Where am I now? Baby, where do I sleep?/ Feels so good, but I'm old/ Two thousand years of chasing taking it's toll/ And it's coming closer/ And it's coming closer_ **

END

**Author's Note:**

>  **End notes: [PROMPT]** [Silent screams and earth-shattering bliss.](https://www.facebook.com/groups/1421147274567871/permalink/2326302040719052/)  
>   
>   
>   
>  **Thanks :**  
>   
> To the WONDEROUS [MosaicCreme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MosaicCreme), as so frequently happens, lately.  
>   
>   
>   
>  **Resources & References for this fic:**  
>   
> [Pokémon Wiki](https://Pok%C3%A9mon.fandom.com/wiki/Pok%C3%A9mon_Wiki)  
>   
> Kings of Leon’s “[Closer](https://genius.com/Kings-of-leon-closer-lyrics),” on Genius.com, and the rest of the album, [Only by the Night](https://genius.com/albums/Kings-of-leon/Only-by-the-night)  
>   
>   
>   
>  **Powered by :**  
>   
> Kings of Leon’s “[Closer](https://youtu.be/K-5mcoaPc_U)” [3:57], on YouTube, and the rest of the album, as well: “[Only by the Night](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=OLAK5uy_kil1pZKWRLBDxadB4Fi8PyiLym2nJkuX4).” [11 songs].  
>   
>   
>   
>   
> [TUMBLES with the bug](http://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com)! And [PILLOWFORTS with the bug, too](https://www.pillowfort.io/beetle-comma-the)!


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